


In Plane Sight

by Edgelord (lostlikeme)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Dates, First Kiss, First Love, First Time, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Love at First Sight, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 16:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8998771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostlikeme/pseuds/Edgelord
Summary: Alfred and Arthur meet in an airport on Christmas eve while both of their flights are delayed.





	

Sometimes, people meet in remarkably unconventional ways.

"I bloody well told them to sod off! Twats botched up my tickets up!” Arthur screams, palms sweaty. “I know—I know!” He throws his hand up in the air. “Look, I've gotta go. No, I'll probably be here all night!” His brows furrow when he explodes. “What the hell do you think, you git? Does it sound like I'm gonna make it in time for Christmas morning if my plane isn't leaving till after?” Arthur’s face turns red. “No, you're a tosser, that's the problem!"

He shoved the cellphone into his pocket and slumped down against the cold plastic chair. This is the way Alfred F. Jones met Arthur Kirkland. Although not the most pleasant manner in which to meet someone, it's not as if you often get to choose the way a person enters into your life.

"Goddamned arsehole," the Brit mumbled into his scarf.

Some people, for example, just push into your life without asking for permission. They show up on your doorstep without any flowers, waltz into your kitchen with mud on their shoes, and start drinking the last of your orange juice straight from the carton. Yes, some people, you see, are American.

"Are you British?" a loud voice asked.

Apparently the fact that Arthur's eyes had been closed hadn't been a sufficient enough sign that he didn't want to be talked to. Not that Alfred was the type of guy who read signs or even paid attention to what they said if he did.

"Well you're American," Arthur countered, eyes flickering up and down.

The spectacled lad scratched the nape of his neck. "Uh, yeah," he admitted. "That obvious?"

The Englishman smirked. "Who else would be so intrusive?"

If Alfred were a smarter sort of a guy, he might have taken offense. But Alfred wasn't the smarter sort of guy. Alfred was the sort of bloke who looked for his glasses when they were still on his face. So instead of being offended, he remained bright eyed and bushy tailed.

"Well I think British shit is like, so cool! I can’t wait to go!"

Arthur would have told the lad that flattery wouldn't get him nowhere, but it was certainly working already. Not to mention Arthur was certain Alfred wasn't trying to flatter him insomuch as he was merely being honest. Honesty. Wasn't that refreshing?

"So!” Alfred clapped his hands together. “You goin' home for the holidays?"

Arthur stiffened. "Something like that."

"Something like that?” Alfred quirked a brow. “What's that mean?"

"It means I don't wish to discuss it further," Arthur snapped.

Without missing a beat, Alfred continued prodding. "Why not?"

Arthur sputtered. He opened his mouth and gaped like a fish for a few seconds, then closed it.  
"France," he managed tersely, lowering his voice to a whisper. "I'm headed to France for the holidays." His eyes flickered from side to side like he was worried someone might overhear his embarrassing confession.

Alfred blinked quizzically. "So you're British, but you're going to France for the holidays? Ain't that like, illegal or something?"

Arthur chuckled in spite of himself. "Ought to be," he mumbled, lips stuck in small smile.

"I'm headed back to Canada for Christmas with my brother!" Alfred volunteered, white teeth flashing in a blinding grin. "And I don't know about France, but there's nothing better than Christmas in Canada!"

A moment passed where Alfred looked almost...sad. Arthur frowned and Alfred perked up, as in sensing a shift in the mood. "Well, except maybe Christmas in New York, but—"

"Why don't you just stay then?” Arthur interrupted. “Here in New York." 

Alfred glanced nervously at his phone, and then back down at his ticket. He shoved it back into pants and shrugged. "Don't got anybody to spend it with." He rubbed his shoulder and his mood ricocheted from excited to sullen in the blink of an eye. "And I might not even get to see my brother," he said. "My flight's delayed, so I might not make it in time."

"Mine too, and I'm none the worse for it," Arthur lied. 

Alfred's smile slipped back onto his face where it belonged. He obviously wasn't the sort to dwell on things, at least. Alfred straightened his back, fixed bomber jacket, and yanked his hat off his head.

"Well that's good, I mean—not good—but…” Alfred turned pink. “You wanna maybe get something to eat?" 

Arthur wasn't sure how young Alfred was, or exactly aware of how things went in America, but to his British ears the invitation sounded the smallest bit campy. Not that it mattered either way, Arthur supposed—and there went the American's hand, back at the nape of his neck again.

"I can pay for it!" Alfred rushed to say, "I mean, not that you can't—"

Arthur quirked a brow. "Are you asking me out a date?"

"You won't beat me up if I say I am, will ya?" 

"I doubt I could if I wanted to," Arthur said, appraising Alfred's fit torso. "Not that I want to," he added, eyes twinkling.

There are many types of dates that occur in the world. There are awkward dates, bad dates, first dates, and worst dates. There are last dates and break-up dates, dates where you propose, and dates where your girlfriend brings her parents. There are also business dates, just-friends dates, and blind dates. There are also dates on a calendar, and dates, the dried fruit from the date palm. 

Despite Arthur's cynical attitude, passive-aggressive behavior, and scathing sarcasm, combined with Alfred's absent-mindedness, nationalism, and fondness for yelling--the date they were having could be described in one word: good.

"So you told me where you were going, but where are you coming from?"

"The Democratic-Republic of none of your business, actually."

Alfred laughed, snorted and to his horror, something wet hit the table. Arthur slowly looked up. It was around this time, that Arthur and Alfred began to think that this was indeed going to be a bad date. Actually, Arthur's exact thought was: this is going to be the date from Hell.

"Did you just squirt Coke out of your nose?"

Alfred, stuck between a burst of laughter and the shock of what he'd just done, nodded and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

Arthur chuckled in spite of himself, and rolled his eyes. "You must have been a real pleasure to have in class."

Alfred shrugged. "Dunno. Never been to one."

Arthur stopped chewing. "What do you mean?"  
"Home-schooled," Alfred offered in explanation.  
That explained a lot, Arthur liked to think. It explained a lack of social grace, the lad's willingness to ask out a strange man at an airport, and his general lack of—Arthur remembered the soda—social propriety.

What Arthur Kirkland didn't know, however, was that Alfred would have been the same brash, brave, bold young man even if he'd been raised with a proper English upbringing. And as far as social grace was concerned, it wasn't that Alfred didn't have any, but rather, that he was incredibly nervous. The truth was, this was Alfred's first date—with anyone, ever. 

Not much personal discussion took place after that. Arthur wasn't one to pry, and Alfred barely had enough sense in him to breathe and speak at the same time, much less steer an entire conversation. So instead they stuck to the mundane, the ordinary.

They talked about television shows, and about how the American versions differed from the English counterparts. They both confessed to still holding a fondness for Harry Potter, and for reading tabloids when they thought no one else was looking. They shared their favorite color, favorite food, favorite season, and how they liked their steak cooked.

Not once, however, did either party ask the other’s' age, last name, or occupation. Alfred didn't ask Arthur why he was going to France for Christmas, and in return, Arthur didn't ask Alfred why such a good looking man as himself didn't "got anybody" to spend Christmas with. They both knew better than to get too personal, with the knowledge that their flights would be leaving by tomorrow morning at the worst, and that after that, they'd probably never see each other again.

Even worse, unbeknownst to Alfred, Arthur Kirkland already had a boyfriend. A boyfriend he'd been going out with for seven years, to be exact. He might have been referred to as his fiance, but there still wasn’t a ring to show for it. Arthur knew that tomorrow he'd return to his long-term lover, Francis, and he knew that even though he and Francis didn't always get along, they weren't going to break up any time soon. Maybe even never break up, or end up married, if Francis ever pulled his head out of his arse and proposed. 

The problem, however, wasn't that Arthur already had a boyfriend, but rather that Alfred was growing on him, something akin to a fungus, and a little too rapidly for his liking. For that problem, there was only solution--

"Excuse me, miss!”

\--Alcohol.

The thing anybody ought to know about alcohol, however, is that it often creates more problems than it does solutions. For instance, now Arthur couldn't remember why he'd been so worried, nor could feel snow, despite the blizzard. He also could not longer walk or speak properly, and any sense of what had been a brain-to-mouth filter was completely wrecked by gin.  
"You got pretty eyes..." Arthur managed through a slur of gibberish. "All pretty and 'minds me of the sky." A lopsided grin made its way onto a formerly sullen face.

Alfred knew the man was drunk, but he couldn't help the blush creeping onto his cheek. He'd never had a man tell him his eyes were pretty. Alfred remained undeterred by the thick snowflakes falling around them. He'd lived in New York most of his life, and spent a fair share of his time in Boston and Canada. He knew what it was like to brave a blizzard, and trudge through snow when it came up to his knees.

Holding a stumbling, completely smashed Brit while waging said snowstorm, was something new altogether.

"Arthur, help me out here. You gotta try and stand!"

"I am standing!" he grumbled, but his frown dissolved into giggling.

The trek to the nearest hotel wasn’t a short one, and the look the receptionist gave them wasn’t exactly encouraging either. When they finally stumbled out of the elevator onto the thirteenth floor, the card-key didn’t work the first three times he swiped it, which was a rough indicator of how the rest of the night would fare. 

Getting Arthur into bed proved to be the easy part, getting him to stay there, that was the real trouble.

"Alfred, don’t leave me. I'm cold!" Arthur whined from a few feet across the room on an identical twin bed.

"Go to sleep,” Alfred muttered. “I'll see you in the morning." 

This hadn't gone well at all, had it? Alfred was the sort of guy who liked to blame things on himself. Maybe because he'd always been the oldest child, and his parents had always snapped at him to set a better example. In the end, it's all just freudian speculation. Regardless of the reason, Alfred somehow felt the deterioration of his first ever date was absolutely his fault.  
Arthur wasn't even aware anything had deteriorated.

"Scooch over," the Englishman huffed, lifting the blanket and climbing in beside him. 

Alfred nearly jumped out of his skin; he hadn't even heard him walk across the floor. Despite what his very active libido was telling him, Alfred knew sleeping next to Arthur was a Very Bad Idea. In fact, on a list of bad ideas, sleeping in bed with Arthur was way up there—right next to the time when he was seven and he'd tried to skateboard off of the roof and onto a ramp in the backyard that he'd constructed out of cardboard boxes. Thank god Mattie had told on him before he'd even gotten the kneepads and helmet on.  
"C'mon, there's room. Scooch." 

Alfred scooched. He couldn't help it. Something about the tone lit a fire under his ass and besides, it’s not like Alfred didn’t want Arthur in the bed with him. He hoped that was it. Arthur would get into bed with him, they'd fall asleep spooning, and wake the next day awkward, erect, and late for their prospective flights. Arthur, however, had other plans.

The first thing he did not according to Alfred's plan, was get into bed and face him. Green eyes stared invitingly into blue ones as Alfred swallowed. The second thing he did was inch so close that their noses touched. The third thing he did was lean in to press a hand against the front of his boxers. The hand was warm and felt—god—so good, especially when Arthur moved it just so. In that moment, Alfred couldn't understand for the life of him why he thought getting into bed with the Brit had been a bad idea.

When said hand started to make its way beneath the hem of his underwear, a jolt reminded him.

"Arthur!" 

He wanted to tell him to stop--or maybe he didn’t want to--but he meant to, at any rate. Honest. Any second now he was going to reach down, remove his hand, roll over, and go to sleep. This was a bad idea. Arthur was drunk, shit-faced drunk. 

"M'not drunk," Arthur mumbled, as if reading his mind. 

Alfred tried to move out of reach, but it was no use. Arthur simply moved forward in unison and pressed his hand between his legs again, warm and so right. Where was Mattie to tell on him now?

"We can’t! This is just—this isn't a good idea," Alfred, managed, finally having mustered up enough resolve to push the other man's hand away. 

He backed up further. Dammit, he was so hard, and dammit, this was such a bad idea. Fuck.

Alfred is having what most people call an “internal battle.” He's got two conflicting ideas jumbling around in his head, battling over the empty airspace. One idea, which is allowing Arthur to continue to stroke his cock, that's the one he wants to listen to. That's also the bad idea. It's the bad idea because Arthur is drunk and not in any state of mind to make decisions of the sort. The other idea, which involves not allowing Arthur to touch his cock, and possibly getting up and sleeping in the other bed with an uncomfortable erection—

That's the idea he really doesn't want to listen to.

Now if Alfred were like most guys, he'd simply listen to his dick, let Arthur continue to touch it, and feel no guilt about it later because, hell, Arthur had been offering.

Therein lies the issue, however. Alfred is a better man than that. He's the kind of man who holds open car doors for his drunk date, the sort of guy who helps a lost toddler find her Mommy, and he's most definitely not the sort of person who fools around with someone who's clearly inebriated. If you asked anyone who knew Alfred why, they'd tell you: He's just that kind of guy. If you asked Alfred, he’d tell you point blank: Because I’m a hero.

During that moment, Alfred found himself wishing he wasn’t. Just for a night, he wished he could have a turn at being the Bad Guy. It was also at that precise moment when a certain Englishman reached between his legs again, to which Alfred promptly backed up, got tangled in the sheets, and fell off the bed, dragging Arthur with him.

On the list of stupid things he'd actually done, that went right up there with letting Arthur get into his bed in the first place.

"Get off," Alfred grumbled, uncomfortable with being under Arthur, and uncomfortable with being unable to control the situation. 

Arthur didn't budge. He did quite the opposite. He reached between their bodies and started right back up with the whole hand-on-crotch business. While the fall and the minor head injury had knocked enough sobriety into Arthur to remind him that he had a boyfriend, it didn't knock quite enough sense into Arthur for him to care. Besides, he was hard, and Alfred was right there and he was hard, and bloody hell—why did Alfred have to keep pushing his hand away?

"Wait...!" 

Arthur stopped for a moment and Alfred quickly tried to formulate something that would convince the Englishman that doing this was a bad idea.

"Alright, um...how about—what if we just—how 'bout we just get ourselves off?" 

That wasn't bad, right? That didn't count as taking advantage of someone when they were drunk, did it? Alfred didn't think so.

"Is that...alright?" he asked again. 

Just how drunk was Arthur anyway? Drunk enough to pass out, apparently.

The next day went nearly as Alfred had predicted it. They woke up too late, stuck to each other in a tangle of sheets and sweat, and awkwardly looked away. The magic of the dinner and the chemistry they'd shared from the night before had vanished, replaced with shifty eyes and a closeness that only made them uncomfortable. The process of disentangling themselves from the sheets and one another went far too slowly for either of them.

With no time to shower, Alfred merely threw on the same clothes he'd worn the night before, while Arthur hurriedly laced his boots. So this is it, then. Alfred couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. They put on their coats in silence, and it wasn't until Arthur was putting on his scarf that he realized they'd both left their luggage behind at the airport. Hopefully it was still there.

Neither of them said anything of real substance until they left the hotel. It was Arthur.

"Sorry about last night," he offered, feeling right daft about it, too. 

He'd really botched last night up by getting completely pissed. Damn his inability to hold his alcohol. As much as he could recall, Alfred hadn't had anything to drink at all. While bits and pieces of embarrassment and shame were slowly piecing themselves together in Arthur's brain, Alfred could already remember the entire tonight.

"It's alright," Alfred said, even though it really wasn't. 

Another thing that Arthur didn't know was that what had happened the night before was as far as Alfred had ever been with another guy. Alfred felt like some kind of idiot for it now. He'd always remember his first date and almost-handjob as having been with some British asshole who couldn't give a shit if he died or lived.

Such was life, at times, though Alfred didn't like to believe it.

The short walk to the airport became a stifling, arduous trek. The foot of snow on the ground didn't help matters. Arthur was clearly struggling through it. When they reached the airport, Christmas music was playing, and it wasn’t until then that either of them remembered it was Christmas. Almost simultaneously, they turned to each other.

"Merry Christmas."

"Happy Christmas."

For a moment, the feeling from the night before was back. The feeling that there was a connection between them, some sort of undeniable chemistry. A weird, warm, almost comfortable feeling—until someone's phone rang, and the moment was broken. Two sets of eyes glanced down.  
"It's mine," Alfred managed. "Hello?" It was Mattie.

Some people leave your life entirely without your permission. Some people think that it just won't work, or that you're busy, and quietly, but meaning well, slip out the back door when you're not looking without even so much as a wave goodbye. Yes, some people are British.

By the time Alfred glanced back up, the Brit had disappeared into the crowd.

1 Year Later

"I know Mattie, I know! I'm sorry, I just think, I need to spend Christmas by myself.” Alfred sighed at the disappointment in his little brother’s voice. “Of course it's not your fault!” He watched his own sneakers scuff against the sidewalk. “We've already had this talk, so I dunno why you're calling me….” He had to pull the phone away from his ear when their mom screeched in the background. 

“Of course I know you care about me!” Alfred stuffed his free hand into his coat pocket. “I care about you too—hey! Don't be like that!” he said with a frown, growing frustrated. “Yes, I'm still eating Christmas dinner,” he answered plainly. “With no one! I told you, I'm having it by myself, I'll see you for New Year’s!”

Alfred shoved the cell phone into his pocket and slumped down on the cold cement in front of the grocery store.

"Trouble with your boyfriend?" a familiar voice asked. Alfred noted the British accent almost immediately.

"My brother," Alfred clarified without looking up. “What do you want?” he asked sourly.

Arthur shrugged. "Thought that might be you, throwing yourself a bloody pity party right outside in the snow."

Alfred frowned at the Englishman. They'd run into each other a total of four other times since the year before when they'd first met. Each time had been more disastrous than the last. It wasn't until the third date that he'd found out that the Brit had had a boyfriend back in France the entire time. Go figure.

"It's not open, you know,” Arthur mutters. “The store, that is." 

Alfred nodded. He'd known before he'd left the house, but had hoped against hope anyway. Not that it had done much.

"I needed cranberry sauce," Alfred complained.

Arthur, realizing the American wasn't getting up anytime soon, sat down on the frozen sidewalk beside him.

It had been an entire year since the day they'd first met. They'd changed a lot. Alfred, in particular, was a good deal more experienced, while Arthur, in particular, was a good deal more single. 

"Shouldn't you be in France?" Alfred asked bitterly.

Arthur shook his head. "We broke up."

A short, awkward, silence settled over them like a soft blanket of snow. Their shoulders bumped, and Alfred shifted away. "Why're you out here anyway?"

"I was hoping it was open."

Alfred sighedy. "Well no shit, what for?" 

"I, erm…” Arthur gestured, face red. “That is to say that, well—I forgot the bird, actually."

Alfred burst into laughter. It sounded incredibly loud in front of the eerily empty storefront. Arthur crossed his arms and narrowed his brows, but Alfred didn’t let up. 

"You forgot the turkey? Who forgets the entire turkey?” he was breathless by the time he spoke. “I mean, yeah, okay, I forgot the cranberry sauce, that's forgettable!” He slapped his leg with another guffaw. “How the hell do you forget the turkey?"

"Oh belt up already!” Arthur hollered. “I remembered every other bloody thing! Besides, Francis usually cooks!"

A hushed quiet fell again, leaving Arthur to fume with a hot face.

"Wait, your boyfriend's name was Francis? And he lived in France?" Another peal of laughter. "That's rich, Francis from France!" He snorted and almost immediately silenced himself. If he'd had any soda, it would have shot out of his nose.

Arthur seriously contemplated leaving.

“Hey,” Alfred clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I’m sorry. You're just kind of an asshole, you know? What with the way you left that first time. And then the whole never telling me you had a boyfriend thing."

"Like you didn’t return the favor!"  
"When?" Alfred's voice was rose with disbelief. Was the Brit keeping numbers in a little organizer or something?

Arthur clenched his jaw before exploding. "You said you were going to the loo and never came back when we were out at dinner!" 

The bloody git had left him waiting for twenty minutes before Arthur had gone to look for him, only to find the bathroom empty.

"Something came up! And besides, you had it coming! Besides, I paid for everything for the first date!"

Arthur barred his teeth. "Please enlighten me to how something just "comes up" while you're in the loo! Did you shit your trousers or what?” Alfred covered his mouth in an attempt not to laugh. “And anyway, our first date wasn't at a restaurant where chicken and carrots cost sixty-three dollars!"

Alfred’s eyebrows shot up to the top of his forehead. "You’re the one who picked the restaurant!"

"Well it's a bloody good restaurant!"

Silence and cold enveloped them and Arthur wondered if Alfred was just making him barmy. He was outside on Christmas night, with no turkey, in front of a grocery store that wasn't even open, next to a guy that would bite his arm off. He was definitely going mad. Brilliant. Just what Arthur needed.

"And what about the time when you said I could stay at your flat because my flight was canceled? You left to get your car and never came back!"

"Something came up! Maybe I changed my mind! None of your goddamned business!" 

Arthur could feel his blood pumping faster. What does that mean, something came up? How?

"How is you not picking me up when you said you would not my business?"

"I don't know, just like where you live is the democratic-republic of none of my business!"

"It's not!"

"Well why the hell are you even in New York all the goddamned time anyway! Why are you here now?"

"Maybe I live here!"

"Oh, well I thought it wasn't my business!"

"It's not!

"Then why'd you tell me?"

"You are such an arse!"

Somehow over the course of the argument, they'd moved from sitting on the iced sidewalk to standing on it.

"Fuck you!"

"Sod off!"

"Douchebag!"

"Tosser!"

He punctuated his final statement by losing his footing on the slippery sidewalk and falling elbow over arse. Alfred grabbed for him, pulling the shorter man against his chest while bracing himself against the wall. Just like that, they were hugging.

Alfred could feel a lump form in his throat. "I don't have a car," he confessed. "I just thought it would seem impressive...y'know?"

Arthur shook his head, pulling away to meet his gaze. "Well if it's confessions we're doing here," he started, "I wasn't quite as pissed as you thought I was that night."

"Pissed?"

"Drunk. I was sober enough to kinda—to know better. So, I win, I think." 

Arthur nuzzled into the warm leather of his jacket.

"Not so fast," Alfred started, attempting to catch his eyes. "Remember the first time we met?" 

Arthur nodded and Alfred's hand flew to the nape of his neck. Arthur knew he was going to say something important now.

"Well, my flight wasn't delayed," he finished.

Arthur's brows knitted together in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I lied. I just wanted to take you out on a date."

Arthur took a step back and stared at Alfred.

"Wait a second. You blew off an airline ticket and a trip to your brother's for Christmas to go on a date with a random man you'd never met?"

"Yes?" Alfred smiled sheepishly. "I always follow my instincts."

Arthur smiled and leaned in so close that he could feel Alfred's breath on his cheek. "Oh really? And what are your instincts telling you now?"

Alfred smirked. "That we should get inside before we freeze our nuts off." He paused, feigning innocence. "Why, what are yours saying?" 

"That you should kiss me, stupid." It was Arthur's turn to deliver a smug look. "Too bad you always listen to your instincts..."

Alfred smiled as leaned forward. "Well, maybe we could listen to yours, just this once."

Sometimes, people meet in remarkably unconventional ways. Some people see fireworks upon first sight, and feel giddy all the way to the tips of their toes. Some people lie to impress, to protect, and some people pretend to get blackout drunk on the very first date. Some people, you see, fall in love.


End file.
